


i don't wanna see you go (the sky is over)

by incarnandine



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Minor Character Death, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 08:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12453774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incarnandine/pseuds/incarnandine
Summary: He remembers every line of Kanda’s pale, ashen face; he remembers high cheekbones, soft-looking skin unmarred by even a smallest of scars, he remembers long dark eyelashes over black eyes just slightly tinted with blue, the annoyed grimace of thin pale lips, he remembers the exact tone of his voice and the way he pulled his arms up to tie his hair back and had he a knife, he would carve the memory out of his brain, alive, because he was not made to remember such details about people.





	i don't wanna see you go (the sky is over)

**Author's Note:**

> This one is heavier in angst than the previous yuuvi drables I wrote - just warning.
> 
> (Title and quote from Serj Tankian’s song)

_(everybody knows_  
_that you cradle the sun_  
 _living in remorse)_

Being a Bookman came with a perfect photographic memory, trained for years and years to record the events that would not - could not - make it to paper; came with a memory Lavi resented.

Having such memory meant he could not, nevermind how much he’d want to, _forget_ anything. He was used to blocking events out of his mind - would go mad if he didn’t, one can’t have any semblance of ordinary everyday life with memories of battlefields and fallen comrades plaguing his every waking hour - and yet, no matter how he tried to forget, he could not.

He ought to remember events, not people. People were, _ah, how did old Bookman say it time and over again, ink on paper_? Just that; not more, not less, mere pawns in the centuries passed and the aeons to come. Unimportant, fickle, fleeting.

He remembers every line of Kanda’s pale, ashen face; he remembers high cheekbones, soft-looking skin unmarred by even a smallest of scars, he remembers long dark eyelashes over black eyes just slightly tinted with blue, the annoyed grimace of thin pale lips, he remembers the exact tone of his voice and the way he pulled his arms up to tie his hair back and had he a knife, he would carve the memory out of his brain, alive, because he was not made to remember such details about people.

About the world; yes. But not people - never the people.

He’s well aware that Kanda knows the way he’s constantly being watched, scrutinized, pulled apart by inquiring green eyes, that he sees Lavi looking when Lavi himself doesn’t realize that he’s looking - and yet, he never says a word.

There is a glass wall between them, one that neither wants to acknowledge; they dance around each other, but from afar, neither taking even the smallest step forward.

Years pass, and Lavi never stops looking.

Kanda never looks back.

None of them mention it.

The old Bookman falls sick; he dies the following spring, not on the battlefield, not in glory - and for the first time in his life, Lavi realizes that people are not meant to last forever. He’s seen death countless times, but never– never this up close, it never touched him this directly; and with it, the burden of responsibility.

With the last snow melted and gone, he leaves.

He’s not Lavi anymore; he cannot be, now he’s just Bookman - not even the apprentice, the junior - and he hates it, but there is no other choice, he has to find an apprentice of his own now (isn’t life so quickly over, anyway?) and travel the world.

The days of playing Exorcist are over; he leaves his coat, his hammer, his life neatly folded on the chair of his room in the Paris headquarters.

And then - why then, of all times - he finally, finally feels someone watching him, the sensation leaving goosebumps on the back of his neck, like it was trying to burn into him.

Kanda’s finally, finally, looking back; he’s quiet, as always, but nonetheless, he is the only one to see Lavi-not-Lavi leave.

And yet, in that moment, for once it’s too late.


End file.
